


Darkness of a Dream (it’s where I find you)

by LeapAngstily



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Football Xmas Swap 2018, Inspired By Sense8, Inspired by Kimi no Na wa. | Your Name., M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Mental Link, Playlist, Psychic Bond, Sexual Content, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: There exists an old story, a story as old as time, dating all the way back to the days of the old religion. It is a story of star-crossed lovers, true soulmates, who first find each other inside a dream. Once in a blue moon, a child is born bearing the mark of the old religion. It is these children, few and far between, who still hold this ancient gift – a curse – and they are the ones destined to search for their whole life. And, if they are fortunate, maybe they are even destined to find.





	Darkness of a Dream (it’s where I find you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunasenzanotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/gifts).



> Here you go, Maria: a platform for you to cry over this story as much as you want! (I mean it too, please, _feel free to cry_.)
> 
> I finished this story about a month ago for the Football Xmas Swap -- a gift for my beautiful and endlessly talented friend, Maria, who made the whole gift exchange happen in the first place -- and I'm finally posting it now, after she got the chance to read it first. As the only other person aboard the Memo/Monto ship, I must thank you for giving me the excuse to write more of these two, even though it will probably not get nearly as many hits as both of us would like.
> 
> The idea was inspired by _Sense8_ and the movie _Kimi no Na wa. (Your Name.)_ , although it's not necessary to know either of them, as the connection is vague at best -- the setting is still my own. I'm mostly bringing it up in case someone who is familiar with them reads this and notices the similarities. Anyways, I honestly think this is one of the best AU settings I've yet to come up with, and as a whole I think this might be one of the best stories I've ever written. There, I said it.
> 
> Shout out to Kellin for amazingly quick beta job and for listening to my whining while I was writing this against the deadline. You're the best cheerleader I could hope for, and I'm happy I got to share this process with you.
> 
> In case anyone's interested, also made a mini playlist for this story, [you can find it here](http://montocalypse.tumblr.com/post/181496423286).

 

 

 

 

 

_There exists an old story, a story as old as time, dating all the way back to the days of the old religion. It is a story of star-crossed lovers, true soulmates, who first find each other inside a dream._

_This is no ordinary tale, of course, for this story is true, and it keeps repeating itself over time. In every generation, there are those children – true children of the old religion – who will claim they met their destiny in their sleep, only to later stumble upon them out of the blue while awake._

_Some people believe there used to be a time when all people on earth held this gift. A skill to look through their destined partner’s eyes, to walk inside their dreams until they could find each other in the real world._

_Other people claim it is a curse, cast upon those few chosen ones; the painful knowledge there is someone out there waiting for you, but no way of reaching them outside the plains of their dreamscapes._

_Then there are those people – a growing majority – who say it is nothing more than a children’s tale. There are no soulmates or dream bonds in this world; there never has been. Those who claim to have experienced it, are written off as madmen, as hysterical women, as over-imaginative children._

_As the old religion dies out, replaced by the new-found gods of the modern world, the old connection dies with it. There are no more children bonded at birth, no more youths finding each other on the streets and just knowing they are meant for each other._

_But once in a blue moon, a child is born bearing the mark of the old religion. This mark is wiped out too quickly for anyone to see, just a simple smudge washed away along with the birth blood, and no one will be any wiser._

_It is these children, few and far between, who still hold this ancient gift – a curse – and they are the ones destined to search for their whole life. And, if they are fortunate, maybe they are even destined to find._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memo is 9 years old when the dreams start.

He sees uniformed crowds gathering, and hears speeches given in foreign languages he still somehow understands. He looks at it all, eyes wide with wonder – child’s curiosity mixed with fear he doesn’t quite understand – his hand clutching his mother’s hand like afraid she is going to leave him.

“Is there going to be a war, _mutti_?” Memo doesn’t recognize his own voice – doesn’t even recognize the language he is speaking. His mother – who Memo realizes is _not_ his mother – only smiles down at him sadly, the lines on her young face making her look older than she is.

The dreams don’t stick, always wiped away by the new morning, leaving behind only the vaguest of memories of having been somewhere else. The fear stays, though, and it makes Memo uneasy because he has no idea what he is so afraid of.

“Is there going to be a war, _mamá_?” Memo asks one morning over breakfast, startling his mother away from her newspaper. He doesn’t know where the question comes from, even though he has a clear memory of asking it before, sometime, somewhere.

“What’re you asking, sweetheart? Of course, there won’t be a war!” his mother tells him in a cheerful voice, leaning in to kiss his curly hair. She is so beautiful – Memo thinks his mother must be the most beautiful person in the whole world – not a line on her youthful face, her smile happy and reassuring. It makes Memo feel safe; safer than he has felt in weeks.

He has heard adults talking about the previous wars: the Mexican Revolution, the Border War, the Cristero Rebellion… There are also tales of the Great War in Europe, but it is all just talk from the neighbourhood men, reminiscing of the past, reliving the horrors long gone.

Memo is too young to understand what war really means – his grandmother once told him he is lucky, to be able to grow up in the period of peace, unlike so many generations before him – but the mere word makes him want to hide in his room and never come out. And when he closes his eyes, alone in his room, he sees the men in uniforms again, hears the languages he should not know, and yet still does.

He dreams of a soldier walking towards him and crouching down, ruffling his hair, telling him he is a brave young man and soon enough he will be big enough to fight too. It makes Memo feel anxious, because he doesn’t want to fight, but he only bites his lips together and nods in agreement.

Memo wakes up in tears, and for a moment it feels like he might be able to remember the dream, before the morning light seeping through his drawn curtains wipes the slate clean again, leaving him with teary eyes and no idea why that is.

His teachers worry, because he doesn’t play with the other kids in his class. Instead, he spends his recesses drawing lines of soldiers marching wide streets – he is not a good drawer, but _he_ knows what he’s drawing, and that’s good enough for him – and bothering his History teacher with endless questions of the situation in Europe. He has seen the headlines now, he knows there is war brewing in Europe even if his mother tries to tell him otherwise.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about, my boy,” his teacher tells him when he straight up asks about what’s to come, “it’s happening all across the Atlantic. Whatever happens, it won’t affect Mexico.”

 _So why is it that I’m so scared of it?_ Memo doesn’t ask.

Instead, he keeps dreaming of soldiers and military vehicles and propaganda leaflets being distributed on his way to school – Memo never sees where that school is, he only knows it’s not in his district in Guadalajara – and each morning he wakes up, he remembers a little more.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo is 10 years old when the war breaks out in Europe, the news of Germany attacking Poland flying across the Atlantic in a matter of days. The fear inside his chest reaches an all-time high as the news break, but Memo is not surprised in the least, because he has known all along the war is happening.

“Why do wars happen, _mamá_?” he asks his mother one morning, over his cereal soaked in too much sugar and milk. His stomach is turning unpleasantly – he doesn’t even like sugar in his cereal, he prefers jams – but he still digs in like he has never seen food before. “All they do is hurt people and make them scared. There’s no point.”

His mother smiles to him sadly and turns another page of her newspaper, revealing new images from the war-torn Europe. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie. They can’t hurt you here.”

Memo buries himself into his breakfast without another word. Deep down, he knows there is a part of him that will be hurt by this war, but he has no idea how he knows that, not to mention how to explain it to his mother.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo is 13 years old when he first meets Riccardo.

Well, he says ‘meets’, but actually he _dreams_ Riccardo.

He falls asleep in class – he’s spent another night lying awake in bed, dreading the moment he closes his eyes and the images of the European war will come back – and he finds himself in a dark, fortified room: a bomb shelter, he knows instinctively, like he so often does in his dreams.

There is an alarm blaring outside the shelter, distant sound of airplanes and bombs hitting targets breaking even through the strengthened concrete walls.

Memo is lying on a wooden platform, his makeshift bed for the night; but this time, he is not alone. There is another boy lying on the platform next to him, a lanky teenager just like Memo, with wavy brown hair and pale skin. The boy looks drawn into himself, his arms wrapped around his own body like a protective barrier.

This is the first time Memo has seen him, but still he _knows_ him; he knows this is the boy he has been dreaming of for years, knows it so intimately it leaves an ache in his chest.

The boy’s whole body is trembling when Memo reaches out and touches his shoulder, his touch feather light, so afraid of startling this terrified boy who has become such a huge part of Memo’s life without either of them realizing it.

However, instead of jerking back from the physical contact, the trembling of the boy’s body ceases and he lets out a relieved sigh, relaxing under Memo’s touch. It encourages Memo to go on, and he carefully wraps his arm around the boy’s waist and settles down next to him, his chest pressed against the bony back – the boy is so skinny under his too big clothes, Memo can practically feel every bone of his body.

They lie there together, relaxed and safe, for what feels like an eternity; until the raid alarms die down and the sound of the airplanes is long gone.

“My name is Memo, by the way,” Memo whispers into the boy’s ear when the shelter goes quiet, the people around them taking the precious moment of peace to close their eyes and sleep.

He wakes up to his teacher clearing his throat loudly, his mind groggy and brain still half asleep. There is only one clear thought in his mind. No, not a thought, just a single word. A name.

 _Riccardo_.

He writes down the name in his notebook, determined to remember.

 

 

§§§

 

 

“My mom tells me you’re not real,” Riccardo whispers to him one night.

They are lying on Memo’s bed in the dead of night, facing each other, heads resting on the same pillow and fingers entwined between them on the mattress.

“Do you believe her?” Memo is almost scared to ask.

 _He_ knows he’s real, and he thinks he knows Riccardo is real, too. He doesn’t know how to explain it, so he hasn’t even tried, not even to his mother or his grandmother, who until now have always been there to listen whenever he has needed them.

This is different, because how is he supposed to explain Riccardo to them?

“I don’t know,” Riccardo admits. His ice blue eyes meet Memo’s brown ones hesitantly, and Memo can tell Riccardo wants to believe this is real just as much as Memo wants it. It’s like there are two opposing forces fighting inside Riccardo’s head: the rational one that tells him his mother must be right, because _how could any of this be real_ , and the instinctive one that is telling him it is real no matter how implausible it seems.

Memo knows this, because he recognizes the feelings clenching his own chest — Riccardo’s feelings or his own, he cannot even tell anymore. Maybe they’re one and the same; maybe they have walked inside each other’s dreams for so long that they’ve merged into a single being.

“ _I am real_ ,” Memo whispers and leans in to press their foreheads together. He can feel the contact, clear as a day. If he didn’t know better, he could almost believe Riccardo is really here next to him, instead of all the way across the ocean, in Europe, in the middle of the bloodiest war history has ever known.

There is nothing Memo would rather do than keep Riccardo here with him forever, safe and away from the harm’s way, but they have learned the time to wake up always comes too soon.

“I’m real,” Memo repeats with firmer voice when Riccardo doesn’t say anything, “and I think you are too. Because I _feel_ you, right here.” He tugs on Riccardo’s hand and pulls it against his own chest, where they can both feel his heartbeat. “To me, you feel more real than anything I’ve ever seen in my waking hours.”

“The first sign of madness,” Riccardo says softly, but despite his sceptical words, his hold on Memo’s hand tightens, “is when you can’t tell dream from reality.”

“And what if they’re one and the same?” Memo breathes out the question, not breaking the eye contact even as Riccardo tries to shy away.

“What if they’re not?” Riccardo counters, and the tiny frown knitting his brows together is too adorable for words. Memo can’t hold back a smile, affection bubbling inside his chest, for this boy he doesn’t know at all – and yet also knows like a part of himself.

Memo knows this is real, because he knows his mind could never have come up with someone like Riccardo. Not even the world’s best artist could have come up with someone like Riccardo.

Come morning, Riccardo is gone. Memo no longer has to write things down to remember him.

 

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo nods off in class again, and for the briefest of moments, he can see Riccardo sitting on his desk, playing with his pens and blocking the view to the blackboard.

He snaps back into attention when the teacher calls his name, asking him to come up to the blackboard and solve the next math problem.

When he walks back to his desk after failing spectacularly at solving the problem, he notices a sentence scribbled in the middle of an empty page of his notebook. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, more of a hurried scrawl than Memo’s own careful cursive. He recognizes the words, though.

_‘I’m real too.’_

Memo pays no mind to the class after that. The words feel like an irrevocable truth: Riccardo was here, with Memo, and it was more than a dream. It was real, tangible, and the messy words on paper are a proof of that.

“I didn’t know you studied Italian?” a classmate comments when she walks past his desk after the class ends, pointing at the words that are still there, not fading away like all his dreams do.

It is only then that Memo realizes the words he’s been staring at since they appeared are, in fact, not written in Spanish.

 

 

§§§

 

 

“Where are you now?” Memo asks Riccardo one night.

They are floating around the endless void; it’s a place they have started calling middle ground, a plane of the existence that is neither here nor there. This is where they come when they fall asleep at the same time, when Riccardo is desperate to block away the air raids and Memo is busy escaping the dull reality of his daily life.

“I’m right here, aren’t I?” Riccardo comments dryly, a lazy smile aimed in Memo’s general direction. Riccardo is never this relaxed when they meet in the real-world settings – when one of them is still clinging to the shreds of consciousness – and seeing it makes Memo wish they could keep hiding here forever.

“I know that!” Memo laughs out his reply, the worries of their real lives suddenly feeling so minor, like an afterthought. “But where are you, you know, out there? Where can I find you?”

Riccardo’s face twists with sorrow and fear. “You don’t want to come here. It’s horrible.”

“I could come and take you away,” Memo says with the conviction of a 15-year-old confessing his first love. “Imagine it: we could be together during the days, and then go to sleep at night, and come here to be together during the nights too.”

“I’d like that,” Riccardo admits, his shy smile reaching his eyes for once.

Riccardo doesn’t smile much, Memo has noticed, not even in the dreams where they are far away from the warzone. Memo doesn’t blame him for it, understanding the pain and fear Riccardo must be living with every single day, but he still wishes he could do something to bring back that genuine smile that sometimes flashes on Riccardo’s features before he catches himself doing it.

“I’ll do it,” Memo assures him immediately, and there is no deceit in the words. All Riccardo needs to do is ask, and Memo will go all the way to Europe to steal him away. “Just tell me where you are, and I swear I will come for you.”

Riccardo tells him, hopefulness shining in his eyes.

When Memo wakes up next morning, he can’t remember the conversation, or the location Riccardo told him. He only remembers the hopeful eyes and the first genuine smile he’s ever received from Riccardo, and he beats himself up for not remembering what he said to make that happen.

The following night, Riccardo is not there. Memo can’t remember ever feeling more alone.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo can’t sleep.

He remembers a time when he stayed up through the nights because he couldn’t take the images of war filling his dreams. Those were times before he met Riccardo, came face to face with the sole reason of his terrifying and yet intriguing dreams.

Now, he can’t sleep because Riccardo is gone.

Memo can’t bring himself to close his eyes and face not having him there – not even though when he does, he can finally get a full night of restful, dreamless sleep, without soldiers on the streets or the sound of bombings in the background or Riccardo’s forever sad frowns.

It has been 6 years since his bond with Riccardo first pushed through his subconscious – Memo suspects the connection has been there long before that, although he has no recollection of how or when it could have started – and it’s the first time in all those years that Memo cannot feel Riccardo’s presence at all.

He leafs through every single newspaper he can find, trying to figure out what’s going on in Europe. There are few reports from Italy, mostly of bombings on factories with no civilian casualties. The sense of dread clutching his chest loosens for a second at that, but then he remembers Riccardo has never told him he is in Italy—he can be anywhere! He can be in Germany, in the middle of it all, for all Memo knows.

A part of Memo believes Riccardo is dead – that is the only thing that could make him disappear like this – and that part is beating himself up for not going to him sooner. Memo doesn’t care if Riccardo never told him where he lived: he should have still gone to Europe to find him, to take him away to safety.

Another, much bigger part of him is still refusing to believe it. Riccardo cannot be dead, not when he was smiling at Memo _like that_ just a few nights ago. There must be another reason. Memo has no idea how their connection works; maybe there’s a trigger to it, something that can switch the connection on and off; maybe they just can’t control it yet, and Riccardo is trying as hard as Memo to come back to him.

For the first time, he also looks for an explanation for their bond. Until now, there has been no need, because it was enough for Memo to know Riccardo was there. But now that he isn’t, Memo is desperate to prove to himself it was not all in his head. He is desperate to bring the connection back.

He finds old stories in the library: of souls tied together, of people walking each other’s dreams, of love and loss and everything in between. Nothing in those stories tells him how to control it or how to bring it back – in fact, if he is to believe the stories, there should be nothing that can break the ties binding two souls together – but at least they are a proof that he is not going crazy. The bond is real.

“Have you ever heard of dream-walkers? Like, soulmates, I guess?” he asks one night when he is sitting in an armchair in his grandmother’s room, watching her mend his broken shirt with sure hands that show no sign of slowing down even with her age. Memo will never admit it, but he had picked up the shirt from the corner of his wardrobe only so that he would have an excuse to talk to his grandmother alone.

“In my time we called them divided souls,” she says with a gentle smile, her eyes not straying from the garment in her hands. “Even back then, it was only a myth. It was real only as long as people chose to believe it was.”

“Did you believe it?” Memo asks, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. He has never spoken to anyone about Riccardo, because he had thought it was only them – but what if there are others?

“I may have, long ago,” his grandmother finishes up her sewing and spreads out the shirt to examine her handiwork. “In my youth, there were lots of children who claimed to have found their other half. But as we grew older and found love in the real world, those stories were soon forgotten. It was only a bit of fun: child’s imagination truly is a wonder.”

Memo does his best to hide his disappointment. He doesn’t want to hear about imagination or growing up; he wants to know how to bring his Riccardo back.

“What about those who didn’t forget?” he asks softly, dreading the answer even before it comes.

“We all did, my sweet. That’s how these things go.” His grandmother’s smile is almost wistful, and for a second Memo wonders if she is struggling to remember her own Riccardo from years long gone.

 

 

§§§

 

 

It has been almost two weeks since Riccardo disappeared, and Memo must have passed out from exhaustion sometime during the night, because one moment he closes his eyes in his own bed and the next, he blinks them open in a hospital room.

The room is filled with beds and in every bed lies a person – men, women, young, old, all brought together by the senseless violence of war – but all Memo can see is the boy on the bed nearest to him.

Riccardo has always been pale and skinny, but now he looks positively skeletal, his cheeks sunken and bloodshot eyes surrounded by dark circles. His whole upper body is covered in bandages, one hand in a cast, only revealing hints of bruised skin underneath. But he is alive, and that’s all Memo cares about.

“You look like shit,” Riccardo informs him with a sardonic half-smile, obviously aware what he must look like to Memo.

Memo lets out a surprised laugh. He realizes there must be tears rolling down his face only because his sight is blurring, and he wipes them away quickly. “That’s rich, coming from you. Have you looked at the mirror lately?”

“That bad, huh?” Riccardo’s light blue eyes are shining with life in startling contrast to his ghastly appearance; there’s warmth, perhaps even relief in the gaze, like Riccardo had thought he had lost Memo the same way Memo had feared for him.

“What happened?” Memo has to ask, even though he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer. He crouches down next to the bed, hand finding Riccardo’s bandaged one on the mattress. The squeeze Riccardo gives in return is weak, but it’s there.

“Bomb shelter collapsed.” Riccardo is looking down at their entwined fingers rather than Memo’s face. “We were stuck down there for over 20 hours. I was one of the lucky ones, they said, to have made it out alive. Though I’m not sure I’d count that lucky, considering how much pain I’m in.”

“Don’t say that,” Memo whispers. The tears are still falling, but he has no energy to try and stop them. It’s overwhelming to feel the connection again, safely nestled in the back of his mind like a part of him, after two weeks of uncertainty and fear he would never feel it again. “I thought I’d lost you. You were just _gone_ , I was so worried.”

“Sorry, next time I’m about to be crushed by a collapsing building, I’ll try not to do it.”

“You better,” Memo chuckles through the tears and lifts Riccardo’s hand up to his lips to kiss the bruised knuckles. It’s a relief, to hear Riccardo joking around, even if he’s doing it in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe, and probably high as a kite on morphine to relieve the pain.

“Can you stay here, for a while?” Riccardo asks quietly, finally meeting Memo’s eyes. “They keep waking me up – to see if I’m still in my right mind or some shit – but I could use the company until that happens.”

It is Riccardo’s way of saying he has missed Memo too.

“Dummy, you know you don’t need to ask. I’ll be here as long as you need me, I promise.”

 

 

§§§

 

 

The war is over. Memo first hears it from Riccardo, the night before the news hit the Mexican newspapers.

“I thought it would never end,” Riccardo admits, his expression a mix of stunned disbelief and immense relief, “or that at least I wouldn’t be around to witness it.”

It has been 6 years, and they have both grown older and more disillusioned in the midst of the second Great War in Europe; Riccardo by physically being there and Memo by seeing it all through Riccardo’s eyes. They are only 16, and yet it feels like they are carrying the weight of pain and knowledge of someone at least twice their age.

“I’m glad you’re still around,” Memo tells Riccardo with a shy smile and wraps him up in a tight embrace. “I’m so glad you’re finally safe.” He has learned to dread the ends of their meetings, afraid it might be the last time he ever sees Riccardo. _Not anymore, never again_.

“Me too,” Riccardo whispers, his face hidden against Memo’s shoulder, but Memo can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m so glad you’re still here.”

Next morning, when Memo joins his family for breakfast, his father greets him with the fresh news of peace in Europe.

“Yeah, I know. Cool huh?” Memo replies with a wide smile as he pours too much milk and sugar into his cereal – he has come to realize over the years that’s the way Riccardo prefers his cereal, and who is he to fight that connection? – not sparing a second glance at the newspaper his father is waving in his face.

 

 

§§§ 

 

 

Memo has learned not to talk about Riccardo to people in his life – not even his grandmother, who might be the only one to understand the bond – because he realizes even without saying that it would sound crazy.

At 18 years of age, he is far too old to have an imaginary friend, even if he only talks to him in his dreams. He is also old enough to realize that the chances of Riccardo being a real living and breathing person are slim to none; even if Memo _knows_ he is real, there is no way anyone else would believe him without experiencing what he has.

“I saw a doctor today,” Riccardo tells him, his voice thin as paper, like he’s afraid to even speak about it. “He’s saying you’re not real. That you’re just a defence mechanism born out of wartime trauma. That you’re something I should let go now that the war’s over, if I ever want to be able to live a normal life.”

They are laying side by side in Memo’s narrow bed, enjoying the couple hours of sleep that they can catch together before Riccardo needs to wake up to the next morning in his part of the world. Memo has many times wondered if he could get a night-time job, just so he could spend his days dreaming with Riccardo.

Riccardo has splayed his palm against Memo’s, studying the way they slot together: Memo’s hands are much bigger than Riccardo’s and his skin is clear of any marks, a vast contrast to the numerous scars crisscrossing across Riccardo’s hands and up his arms.

Memo waits for Riccardo to go on. They have had this conversation before, about them being real, and about not wanting to let go.

“It’s really hard to argue his point,” Riccardo continues as he finally closes his fingers around Memo’s. “I mean, what proof do I have that you’re not just a figment of my imagination? I was scared and lonely, and suddenly you were there, like conjured out of thin air. My perfect knight in a shining armour; someone meant just for me.”

“Please, don’t leave me?” The plea escapes Memo’s lips without his permission, but he doesn’t take it back. It is something Riccardo needs to hear, Memo realizes when Riccardo turns to look at his face. “I thought I lost you once. I’ve never felt more alone. I never want to feel that again.”

“I’m not leaving,” Riccardo whispers, his free hand caressing Memo’s cheek while the other stays inside Memo’s larger one. “They can’t force me. And I won’t do it willingly. You’re my world.”

They have never kissed before – Memo has not even considered it, despite their steadily growing physical closeness, if you can call it that when they have never actually met in the physical world – but when Riccardo leans in and brushes his lips against Memo’s, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“Is this okay?” Riccardo asks when he pulls back, his earlier twitchiness transformed into full on anxiety. He is biting his too dry lips, and his hand inside Memo’s hold has gone lax, like he is expecting Memo to pull away.

“Do it again?” Memo requests with an encouraging smile, tightening his hold on Riccardo’s hand as if to reassure him he’s not going anywhere.

This time, the kiss is more certain, Riccardo’s chapped lips pressing more firmly against Memo’s. Memo has never kissed anyone before – perhaps he has subconsciously been waiting for Riccardo to do it all this time – but he has a feeling that as far as first kisses go, this one is not half-bad.

“You’re my world,” Riccardo repeats when he breaks the kiss, his fingers still stroking Memo’s cheek, his touch feather light, like he is afraid Memo might break from his touch.

“And you’re mine,” Memo responds before he cranes his neck just enough to catch Riccardo’s lips with his own. He closes his eyes and resolutely ignores the sound of Riccardo’s alarm clock pushing through the dreamscape, desperate to keep him there as long as he can.

Riccardo is gone when Memo opens his eyes, the feel of his lips lingering on Memo’s.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo wakes up to a terrible pain jolting through his body like electric currents. There are tears in his eyes and his pulse must be double of his normal resting heart rate. There’s only one thought in his mind, even as the aftershocks of pain die down: _Riccardo_.

He cannot remember what he was dreaming, the details eluding him like they used to when the connection first opened. But he _knows_ Riccardo had been there, sad and terrified and in so much pain. He wants to go back to sleep immediately, to be there to comfort him; but now that he’s awake, beside himself with worry for Riccardo’s wellbeing, it seems impossible to fall asleep again.

“What’s happening to you, Riccardo?” Memo whispers into the empty room. There is no answer, and Memo realizes he is disappointed even though he knows they can only communicate within dreams.

Not for the first time, Memo wishes he could find out Riccardo’s location and physically go to him. But that information is something that keeps eluding him: no matter how many times he asks Riccardo, come morning he will only remember the question and not the answer.

Maybe that’s their curse – maybe they are destined to love each other from afar, only inside their lucid dreams, without ever finding each other in the real world.

 

 

§§§

 

 

“This has to end.”

Riccardo is not meeting Memo’s eyes. He is sitting in the corner of Memo’s room, limbs pulled close to his torso and hands tugging on the ends of his messy hair, his whole body collapsed into itself – he looks nothing like the proud and beautiful man Memo knows and loves.

Riccardo rarely looks like that man anymore, Memo has noticed. Ever since their first kiss – now nothing more than a vague memory of a better time, a whole lifetime ago – there have been glimpses of this more closed off Riccardo; glimpses that have grown more visible and more frequent over time, until they took over completely.

The changes have been so slow and gradual that Memo cannot even tell when exactly Riccardo turned into this broken shell Memo barely even recognizes.

“You don’t mean that,” Memo says resolutely and walks over to Riccardo. He crouches down on the floor so that they are on face level, brown eyes meeting icy blue. “You promised me you wouldn’t leave.”

Riccardo actually has the nerve to laugh, a humourless and cold laughter that makes chills run down Memo’s spine, and not in the good way. “Just look at me. I’m a fucking mess. Even _you_ don’t want me around!”

“I do!” Memo argues immediately. A mess or not, Riccardo’s presence has been a part of Memo for close to a decade by now, and Memo has never stopped needing or wanting him. Even if he did, he would not push Riccardo away now, when he so obviously needs Memo. “Don’t you dare put words into my mouth, Riccardo. Just because you keep torturing yourself with these baseless doubts, doesn’t mean I’m going to stop loving you or wanting you around.”

Riccardo flinches at the words, and he breaks the eye-contact by looking down at his knees that he has pulled up against his chest. “Then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“ _I’m_ the idiot?” Memo tries to keep his tone soft, but the hurtful words settle somewhere close to his chest and make him want to lash out, to show Riccardo how exactly he is making Memo feel. “I’m the only one here who’s facing the facts: we’re stuck together whether you want it or not, the bond is making sure of that, and you’re only making it harder by pushing me away and hurting yourself. Why can’t you just let me love you?”

“Because it’s not real!” Riccardo snaps and Memo is startled to see the tears running down his cheeks. “How could it be? There’s no such thing as dream bonds, that’s just shitty fantasy trying to cover up the fact that I’ve gone mad and fallen in love with the figment of my own deranged mind.”

“Is that really what you think?” Memo asks, grasping Riccardo’s face between his hands and forcing him to look at him. “You think I’m not real? After all the time we’ve spent together, you still think I’m just a dream and nothing more?”

“I don’t know,” Riccardo breathes out the words, his voice strangled. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“ _This_ makes sense,” Memo tells him forcefully and closes the distance between their faces, kissing the protests off Riccardo’s lips. Riccardo returns the kiss immediately, probably out of instinct more than anything. His mouth opens under Memo’s and his tongue comes out to press against Memo’s eagerly. This part, they have always been good at. This part makes sense.

Riccardo is crying when they break the kiss, a sob escaping his lips the moment they’re free to do so.

“Please don’t tell me you don’t feel it,” Memo pleads in a low voice as he wipes the tears away from Riccardo’s cheeks. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m as real as you are. I was born into this world for you, to love you and to take care of you. I’m yours and you’re mine. I _know_ you can feel it too.”

“But what if we had a way to end it?” Riccardo asks through the tears, the sobs fortunately ceasing, allowing him to speak up. “What if we weren’t stuck together? We could be free; _you_ could be free to choose whoever you liked.”

“You really are an idiot,” Memo mumbles and kisses Riccardo again, just lips on lips this time, the touch lingering. “I would still choose you, every single time – I would travel across the Atlantic to be with you if that’s what it took.”

“You keep saying that,” Riccardo says, his tone subdued, “but still you never do it.”

That leaves Memo speechless. When he blinks his eyes, Riccardo is gone.

 

 

§§§

 

 

The bond is flickering, unstable. Sometimes days go by when Memo doesn’t feel Riccardo at all; then other times there’s a glimmer, a flash of something in the corner of his eye Memo knows should not be there.

Every night he goes to sleep wishing Riccardo will be there to greet him, and every morning he wakes up disappointed because he remembers nothing. Often, he wakes up in pain, and deep down he knows it is Riccardo’s pain and not his own. It makes him feel even worse, for not being there for him.

Then there are nights when he can practically feel Riccardo in his arms, trembling and scared, but when he opens his eyes, he is never there. It’s like something – or someone – is blocking the connection that used to be such an intimate part of them both.

Memo keeps searching for ways to travel to Europe. He doesn’t have the money to buy tickets to any of the fancy passenger ships, and no matter how many shifts he pulls in the diner across the street, it will not be enough to take him all the way to Italy. And what if he made it? He still has no idea where to start looking, he has no address, no city, not even a family name. He could spend a lifetime looking, and still he might not find Riccardo.

Time passes – weeks, then months, then a year – and the longer Riccardo stays away, the easier it is for Memo to almost start believing it was never real. The lingering bond in the back of his mind is growing weak, only an afterthought in the face of his new adult life, with new responsibilities and pressures.

There’s a girl at his workplace, a pretty one that keeps fluttering her lashes at Memo and laughing at his jokes. It’s easy in a way it never was with Riccardo, but when Memo finally finds his courage and escorts her home from work and kisses her goodnight, he cannot feel the spark. All he can think of is Riccardo and how his kisses always made him feel like he was on top of the world.

You never forget your first, be it a first kiss or a first love.

Memo has given up on waiting by the time he meets Riccardo again.

“You look well, Memo.”

Riccardo is standing in the void when Memo opens his eyes, facing Memo, his head held high and back straight. He looks much healthier than Memo remembers ever seeing him, cheeks filled just enough to give his usually so sharp features a softer edge, eyes filled with calm Memo can’t remember ever seeing in them, a soft tan on his skin making him glow.

“Riccardo—” Memo has no idea what he wants to say. The dulled connection is suddenly back in full force, tugging on his heartstrings and telling him to go and embrace Riccardo, but he is afraid of doing so, the memory of all the other times when Riccardo disappeared from his arms holding him in place.

Riccardo is not smiling when he meets Memo’s eyes. “I’ve come to say goodbye. I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

“Don’t,” Memo pleads softly, taking a step closer to Riccardo, but still the distance stays the same. “I’ve tried living without you. It’s not worth it.” The connection is burning inside him, pulling him towards Riccardo with such strength it takes a conscious effort not to run to him.

“You haven’t really tried. Not yet. And it’s my fault.” Riccardo’s words don’t make any sense to Memo, but there’s so much conviction in his voice that Memo has no doubt Riccardo believes every word he’s saying. “I shouldn’t have kept holding you back. I’m sorry, Memo.”

“Shut up!” Memo huffs out, the words nothing but a harsh whisper. “I don’t want your apologies, I want _you_. I don’t want to move on if it’s not with you. _I love you_!”

“It’s too late,” Riccardo says when Memo takes another step towards him. He doesn’t move back this time, allowing Memo to walk into his personal space and to cup his face between his hands. “I don’t want you here. You’ve only ever caused me suffering. I never loved you, Memo.”

“Why are you lying to me?” Memo presses their foreheads together. He can feel Riccardo’s cool breath against his lips, and suddenly the distance and the time they have spent apart doesn’t mean anything. Riccardo still means the world to him, and he knows Riccardo feels the same way, because he can _feel_ Riccardo – because they’re one and the same, no matter how much pain they have put themselves through. “I know you, Riccardo; I know those feelings are real. You won’t fool me.”

“Please, don’t come looking for me.” Riccardo breathes out the words against Memo’s lips, a ghost of a kiss lingering there long after Riccardo once again disappears from his grasp.

That same whisper keeps ringing in Memo’s ears when he wakes up.

_“Please, don’t come looking for me.”_

The bond is gone. Memo desperately tries to find it, searching every nook of his mind, for a sign that Riccardo is still there, but he comes up empty. It’s like the time Riccardo was in the hospital, Memo cannot feel him at all, but somehow, this time it feels more permanent.

Memo cries himself back into a dreamless sleep, into the void that used to be theirs but now it’s only him, lost and alone without his counterpart. It feels like a piece of his very self has been forcefully ripped away from him.

Come morning, Memo will have run out of tears. In place, there is new determination: he is going to sail to Europe, and he is going to search the whole continent if he must — he is going to find Riccardo.

 

 

§§§

 

 

The plan is a simple one: Memo is going to travel to the US and find a cargo ship on the East Coast heading for Europe. He is going to find employment and sail across the ocean, and he is going to find Riccardo no matter how long it takes.

His parents think he has gone mad when he announces his plan – minus the finding Riccardo part, because he wants their blessing, even if he is going to go with or without it – but his grandmother only smiles at him and tells him she envies his courage. “In my day, we couldn’t just leave and see the world. You make the best of it, my dearest, and remember you will always have a home here to return to. Both for you and whoever you’re looking for.”

Memo packs light, only the bare necessities he will need on his journey.

While cleaning his room, he comes across his old notebooks, the ones he used to fill with details of his and Riccardo’s conversations in the early hours of morning, while the dreams still lingered in his memory, afraid he was going to forget it all once the dawn broke.

They are simple things: names, numbers, promises, confessions…

And then he finds the page he cannot remember writing. It’s written in a hurried, messy scrawl, almost unintelligible in its simplicity. Memo recognizes Riccardo’s handwriting immediately.

_‘Caravaggio, Italy.’_

Memo has no recollection of ever receiving this information, but at least now he has a place where to start. He might not find Riccardo there – it has been years, after all – but the place must have meant something to Riccardo at some point of time, at least enough to write it down for Memo.

“I’m coming for you, Riccardo,” Memo tells the empty room and slips the notebook inside his backpack with such care one might think it was made out of the finest silk paper. “Please, just wait for me.”

 

 

§§§

 

 

It is almost Memo’s 26th birthday when he arrives in Caravaggio, stepping out of the bus in the town square.

Against all odds, he recognizes his surroundings immediately: seeing those streets and buildings around him gives him a sense of belonging so strong he almost breaks down in tears. This is where he is supposed to be, he’s certain of it.

Sometimes, he’s scared of what he is going to find.

It has been a long journey from Mexico to the US and then across the Atlantic, until he finally set foot on land again in France. He had spent months working in Cherbourg, trying to earn sufficient funds to continue his journey east. Working odd jobs at the shipyards, he had come to realize that aside from his native Spanish, he is also fluent in Italian and German – both languages he remembers hearing only in his dreams, which is yet another proof that the connection with Riccardo is real, and still affecting him.

His hair has grown out, pulled back in a messy ponytail to keep the thick curls at bay, and he has not shaved since he departed from France, so his face is covered by a beard that probably makes him look older than he is – closer to the age he actually feels, perhaps.

He finds a cheap guesthouse and books a room for the next two weeks, paying in cash he has saved up over the months, telling the landlady no one is to bother him. The landlady speaks the exact same dialect of Italian as Memo does – Riccardo’s dialect – and she smiles at him warmly as she enquires if he’s in town visiting relatives.

“Something like that,” Memo concedes without meeting her eyes.

He spends the following days in the town hall, digging through the archives from the wartime, trying to find a photo or a paper that could give him any lead for Riccardo’s family name or whereabouts. He even visits local schools, asking to see their old class photographs in hopes of finding Riccardo in one of them, but it seems he is out of luck.

He leafs through the phone directory at his guesthouse, but there are too many Riccardos in Caravaggio to go around knocking on doors just based on that. He also visits the church archives to find out how many Riccardos were baptised in the same year Memo was born, because he remembers from an old conversation that they are the same age. Then he compares the names on the lists to the ones on the phone directory.

It’s pointless, really, because Memo doesn’t even know if Riccardo was born in Caravaggio. Maybe he only spent his childhood there, which is why Memo recognizes the streets.

Once his two weeks is up, he books two more. His birthday flies past unnoticed, because there is no one Memo wishes to celebrate with. He helps the landlady with the running errands for the guesthouse and sometimes sits down by the fireplace with her in the evenings, sipping wine and listening to her stories about the war.

When she recounts the air raids, Memo remembers a detail he’s yet to pursue.

“Do you remember a bomb shelter collapsing, trapping people under?” he asks with wide eyes, mad at himself for not remembering it sooner. “It was maybe in 1944. I remember my friend talking about it. Not many people survived.”

“Oh yes, it was a tragedy,” the landlady answers with a far-away look in her eyes. “But then again, those years, it was one tragedy after another. A shelter collapsing, a school being bombed to the ground, news of good young men falling in the African front, after first being shipped there against their will.”

“Do you know if any of the survivors are still living here?” Memo pushes on, but the landlady only shakes her head.

“It was a long time ago, my dear, and my memory is not what it used to be.”

The next morning, Memo is back in the town archives, going through newspaper after a newspaper, looking for the headline he now knows must be there. Once he finds it, he can’t hold back his excitement: only 12 survivors, who were all treated in the same hospital after the shelter collapsed. There are no names of the survivors, but the name of the hospital is printed on the top of the page, along with a photo.

The hospital is still in use, though it looks like the building has gone through some renovations after Memo last saw it, back when Riccardo was there.

He keeps asking around until he finds an old nurse who says she was there during the war too. It takes only a slightest bit of pushing before she remembers Riccardo.

“He was the youngest one they brought in that night – just a child, really – and we all thought he wasn’t going to make it. A hard hit in the head, not to mention several broken ribs and a collapsed lung.” The nurse shakes her head, as if in disbelief someone could pull through despite such injuries. “I was tasked with feeding him soup whenever he was conscious enough to swallow it, and with administering more morphine to keep him from going into shock because of the pain.”

“What was his last name?” Memo asks, holding his breath. He’s so close, after all this time.

The nurse is now looking at him with suspicion. “I thought you knew him?”

“I do,” Memo assures her quickly. “It’s just— it was so long ago that we connected, I’m having trouble remembering the details. It’s just his face and first name that have stuck with me.”

The nurse purses her lips, obviously not buying the excuse, but also not doubting Memo’s sincerity. “It was the Montolivo kid. Of the German–Italian parents. I remember because he kept speaking German in his sleep – and Spanish too, for some reason; we all found it quite odd at the time, especially when his parents insisted he’s never even learned the language.”

“Is he still living in Caravaggio?”

The nurse shrugs with a longsuffering sigh, obviously done with Memo’s questioning. “His parents definitely are. You should go to them if you want to know more – I’ve said too much already.”

And that’s how Memo finds himself standing behind the door of Marcello and Antje Montolivo, his heart beating so fast it feels like it might burst right out of his chest. He has shaved his beard and trimmed his hair to a more manageable length, determined to face Riccardo at his best.

If Riccardo is even there, that is. For all Memo knows, Riccardo might be married with a family of his own by now, free of Memo and their connection.

A lady maybe in her 50s opens the door at the third knock. Memo immediately recognizes Riccardo’s features on her lined face – it’s a face he can recall from his earliest dreams, from before he knew what their bond meant.

“Mrs Montolivo?” He waits for the lady to nod her affirmation. “My name is Memo Ochoa. I’m a friend of Riccardo’s. Is there any chance I could find him here?”

At the mention of his name, the woman’s – Antje’s – eyes snap up to meet his. She looks like she’s seen a ghost, fear and astonishment written all over her face. Memo can feel the old affection swelling in his chest – a feeling that’s Riccardo’s and not his, the kind of love Memo has only ever felt for his own parents – and he wishes he could hug this woman and assure her she’s safe, nothing will hurt her anymore.

“Riccardo—,” she stops the answer to suck in a deep breath, tears dwelling in her large blue eyes, so much like her son’s. “Riccardo is not here. He’s been dead for almost three years.”

 

 

§§§

 

 

It can’t be.

Riccardo cannot be dead.

It’s been less than two years since Memo last saw him, so how could he have been dead for a whole year before that?

_“Please, don’t come looking for me.”_

Is this why Riccardo hadn’t wanted him to come? Was Riccardo trying to protect him from this terrible pain that’s coursing through his body with each new sob and wheezing breath? Maybe it had been the last goodbye he could afford before his spirit left this world for good, and he had used it to try and assure Memo there was no need to mourn for him.

“I’m such an idiot,” Memo mumbles into his crossed arms covering half of his face.

He had left Riccardo’s parents’ house in a hurry, desperate not to show how much the news were hurting him. To Antje and Marcello, he’s just a stranger, someone they have never even met, who has only now after three whole years come to haunt them with the memory of their deceased son.

He didn’t make it far, though, the sorrow pulling him to a stop, and now he’s sitting on a park bench, just mere two blocks away from the house where his Riccardo grew up.

He should have come sooner. Maybe, if he came for Riccardo when he first promised, Riccardo would still be here. Memo can’t help but think Riccardo’s death is his fault – the connection slowly driving him mad, until he could not take it anymore.

“I’m so sorry, Riccardo,” he whispers into the thin air, but no one is there to answer him.

He should have known. The bond was something designed to last a lifetime, there was no way Riccardo could have broken it on sheer willpower alone. The only way for the bond to break is death, and deep down, Memo thinks he has known all along that Riccardo is not in this world anymore.

The thought brings new bout of tears into his eyes, and he sobs his grief into his arms, the sleeves of his shirt already damp and soiled by his tears and snot that never seem to run out.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo is packing his measly belongings in his room – getting ready for the long journey back to Mexico – when he is interrupted by incessant knocking on his door.

The young man behind the door looks at him in the exact same way Riccardo’s mother looked at him, eyes full of wonder and fear of something Memo cannot quite decipher. The man is the same height as Memo, their eyes meeting on the same level, and his black hair is short and dark eyes wary.

“Holy shit,” the man breathes out instead of introducing himself, “it really _is_ you.”

“Sorry, do I know you?” Memo asks politely, even though he knows full well he has never met this man before.

The man lets out a humourless chuckle and starts rifling through his bag. “You don’t know me, but I think you might know my best friend.” He pulls out a file that’s overflowing with papers. “He kept drawing you, over and over again. We all thought he was going mad, but now you’re here. It’s kinda creepy, really. Here, take a look!”

Memo accepts the offered file and hesitantly pulls out the first paper. It’s undoubtedly him, the face looking back at him from the drawing. He keeps leafing through the drawings one by one – some of them are obviously from the early years, when Memo’s face still held the baby fat and his clothes were always too big on him; others are more recent, from the time they first kissed, and from the years after, all drawn in the same loving touch that breaks Memo’s heart.

“Why’re you showing these to me?” he finally asks and hands the file back to the man. “It’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s gone. I’ve got no reason left to be here.”

The man’s eyes widen at his words. “Is that what they told you?”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? I was too late, and he’s dead because of it.”

“Ricky’s not dead,” the man blurts out, the flash of anger in his dark eyes dying out as soon as it appears, and his shoulders sag in defeat. “Not yet, anyways. Sometimes it feels like it’d be better if he was. I guess it’s easier for them to keep pretending, instead of facing the guilt over what they did to him.”

“What are you talking about?” Memo tries to stop the small sparkle of hope from igniting in his chest. “Who are you?”

“Sorry, how rude of me.” The man offers his hand and Memo takes it after only a moment of hesitation. “Name’s Giampaolo Pazzini. I grew up in the house next to Ricky’s. And you’re _Memo_ – yes, I know who you are – you have no idea how much he spoke of you, growing up. His knight in a shining armour, coming to take him away from his shitty life.”

There’s a piece stuck in Memo’s throat, blocking the air, and he feels like crying again. Riccardo had waited for him, all that time, and Memo never came for him, not before now, when it’s far too late to make things right.

“We all thought you weren’t real.” Giampaolo is looking down at the drawings peeking out of the file. “I mean, with the war and all he went through— it was the logical assumption that he was just suffering from severe trauma and you were a part of that. A delusion. It never crossed our minds he may have been telling the truth all along.”

There might be tears glistering in Giampaolo’s eyes too, a far away look crossing over his face as he thinks back to his best friend’s suffering. Memo has never seen him in any of Riccardo’s dreams, but he knows instinctively this is someone who meant a great deal to Riccardo.

“What did you mean?” Memo is almost afraid to ask, because just looking at Giampaolo’s face, he knows it cannot be anything good. But he needs to know. “What did you mean when you said he’s not dead?”

Giampaolo wipes his nose into his sleeve – Memo catches a sight of his hands: they’re working man’s hands, dirt under his fingernails and the tanned skin blemished with small scratches and bruises from manual labour – and he avoids Memo’s eyes as he answers, “He’s in an asylum, in Milan. He hasn’t spoken a word in years, not since the operation.”

“What operation?”

Memo knows the answer; he has read the articles of the use of lobotomy to treat serious mental illnesses, knows the risks and the possible side effects. That someone would do that to Riccardo – his beautiful, spirited Riccardo, so full of life and hope, just because he kept insisting Memo was real—

“I think you know.” Giampaolo whispers. He reaches out and presses a comforting hand on Memo’s shoulder. “He’s not the same Riccardo I knew growing up. But at least he’s alive, so maybe there’s still time for you to reach him. Maybe he’s still waiting for you.”

Riccardo had told Memo not to look for him. Now Memo knows why.

“Can you take me to him?” he asks in a thin voice, not sure this is the right thing to do – is he ready to throw away all the beautiful, vivid images of Riccardo in his mind for the off-chance that this new, broken and violated Riccardo might remember him?

“Of course, I can, that’s why I came to you.”

Memo books his room for another week. He doesn’t have any money on him, the last of his cash was used to get the train ticket back to Cherbourg, but the landlady waves off his worries, telling him he will have plenty of time to work it off. “Just go and find your love, my dear. That’s what you’re here for, right?”

 

 

§§§

 

 

Giampaolo fills Memo in during the drive to Milan. It’s a car that belongs to his employer, and Memo has a creeping feeling Giampaolo is not supposed to have it, but he says nothing.

Apparently, Riccardo had really gone off the tracks after the war, only drawing Memo’s face over and over again during his few waking hours, sleeping away most of his days, refusing to see anyone outside of his immediate family.

“He was a sickly kid to begin with, and the lung damage when the bomb shelter collapsed meant he was forced to stay in and study when the rest of us were out playing football and having fun. That would drive anyone crazy, being stuck in your house, trapped inside even after the war was over and everything was supposed to get better. I think that’s why he clung so tightly to the idea of you coming for him.”

Memo thinks back to his communications with Riccardo. He was always so pale and skinny, both during the war and after, Memo remembers sometimes joking about Riccardo never going outside the house.

“The dreams were his escape,” Memo muses out loud, more to himself than to Giampaolo. “A way for him to get away without leaving the house. Only I knew it was real – I mean, how could any of you have known when I still haven’t figured it out? – and I let him down, promising him things I couldn’t keep.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Giampaolo’s eyes don’t stray away from the road. “He never told you any of this, did he? Riccardo was always like that, determined to handle everything on his own, unwilling to let even his closest people in.”

“I knew he needed me,” Memo mumbles and wraps his arms around himself, even though it’s not that cold in the car. “I knew he was in pain. I should’ve come sooner.”

“We all should’ve done more,” Giampaolo tells him resolutely. “I should’ve been there for him; I should’ve believed him when he said you were real. His parents should have listened to him when he said he didn’t want the treatment. His doctors shouldn’t have jumped the gun with the operation.

“But there’s no point in the blame game now. We can only go forward and hope he will still be somewhere in there.”

 

 

§§§

 

 

They are greeted by a male nurse, dressed in green scrubs from head to toe. Memo might find him attractive, with his dark eyes and regal features, was it not for the reason they have come here, into this long-term care mental health facility in the outskirts of Milan.

“Hey Ale, any changes since the last time?” Giampaolo greets the nurse like an old friend.

“You always ask that, even though you must know the answer by now,” the nurse, Ale, comments dryly, not actually answering the question at all. He turns to look at Memo and his eyes widen in recognition just for a fraction of a second, before his professional mask is back on. “And who’s your friend? You know his parents don’t allow any visitors outside the list.”

“Not even his own very personal delusion?” Giampaolo asks and Memo feels the sudden urge to hit him over the head for joking around at a moment like this. “C’mon Ale, I know you recognize him from the drawings. If there’s one person who can reach him, it’s Memo.”

“Fine,” Ale gives up easily enough, fishing out the list from under the table and marking down two visitors. “I’ll have him documented as Gilardino – just make sure Gila knows he was here, in case someone comes asking questions.”

“Thanks man, you’re a lifesaver.” Giampaolo tugs on Memo’s arm to make him move, and they follow Ale down the corridor and through the locked doors into the long-term care unit.

“That’s Ale Matri, by the way,” Giampaolo tells Memo belatedly, waving a careless hand toward the nurse leading them through the facility, “he’s been Ricky’s personal nurse since he was committed here three years ago. Good guy, as you can see, and Ricky seems to like him – as far as he’s capable of liking anyone, in his condition.”

A sense of dread is filling Memo again, and not for the first time he considers running away before he comes face to face with Riccardo. He doesn’t know if he can take it, if Riccardo doesn’t recognize him.

“The doctor finally allowed him to have some watercolours,” Ale tells from where he has halted in front of a closed door. “We’re hoping it’ll make it easier for him to communicate with the outside world, by adding some colour into the room.”

Memo walks over to him and peeks in through the window in the door, breath catching in his throat when he spots Riccardo, sitting on the wide windowsill in his pale pink scrubs and poking a paper with a small paint brush. There’s a smudge of blue paint on his cheek that’s not nearly as pale as Memo remembers.

Outwardly, he actually looks much healthier than he ever did when their bond was still responsive – except for maybe that one last time, but that was already a year into his long-term care, so obviously it was all an illusion.

“Look at the walls,” Giampaolo urges him, and Memo must tear his gaze away from Riccardo, who is yet to notice he’s not alone. Every wall of the white room is covered with drawings and paintings – some just sketches, others intricate art pieces, but all of them show the same face.

“Still think he won’t recognize you?”

“He looks so different,” Memo observes instead of answering.

“That’s what regulated eating and sleeping rhythm does to you,” Ale pipes in. He’s unlocking the door quietly, the lock clicking open without the occupant of the room noticing it. “We take him out daily too, make sure he gets enough fresh air and sunlight. Just because he’s stuck here, doesn’t mean he has to live like a hermit.”

He pushes the door open and allows Memo and Giampaolo walk in first. “Riccardo, you’ve got visitors.”

Riccardo looks up slowly, the pale blue eyes scanning the room, his gaze running over Giampaolo with no recognition flashing in his eyes, but then he stops and stares at Memo. The emotion in his eyes is not quite recognition – the look he gives Memo is puzzled, like he knows he has seen him somewhere before, but he is unable to piece together a full memory.

Memo is holding his breath as Riccardo gets up from the windowsill and walks over to him, his steps stilted and ungraceful – nothing like Memo remembers from his dreams, where Riccardo always moved so fluidly, like he was not of this world – until he is standing in front of Memo, pale blue eyes wide with wonder and lips parted as if about to say something.

Memo’s breath hitches when Riccardo lifts his hand to run two fingers over his cheek – there’s blue paint on his fingers, the same colour also decorating Riccardo’s own cheek, and Memo thinks there must be a long line of blue on his own cheek now too. Riccardo smiles at him, but it’s an empty smile, not the one from his dreams that always managed to make Memo’s heart skip a beat.

Then Riccardo turns back and goes to his windowsill, picking up his brush again. Memo knows that if he walks over, he will see his own face looking up at him.

“You okay?” Giampaolo asks, and it’s only now that Memo realizes he is crying, silent tears rolling down his face and smudging the paint on his cheek.

“I think I need a moment,” Memo admits before he turns on his heels and rushes out of the room. He doesn’t make it far, only down the corridor, where his shaky legs give out and he drops to the floor, back pressed against the white wall and face hidden in his hands. His shoulders are shaking with suppressed sobs, but no voice comes out.

It’s where Ale and Giampaolo find him a few moments later, still fighting back the traitorous tears and trying to get his breathing back in order.

“C’mon, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” Ale says as he helps him up. “I’m sorry, I keep forgetting how hard it is to witness something like that for the first time. I should’ve warned you.”

Memo follows them to the nurse’s station and sinks down in a chair offered to him without a word. He can hear the other two men talking to each other in low voices, catches a few words here and there, but his mind is still with the boy in the white room with walls covered in pictures of Memo.

It was Riccardo, that much he knows; but at the same time, it was _not_ Riccardo, not the same one Memo remembers and loves.

“How could they do that?” he whispers, more to himself than his companions, but Ale and Giampaolo’s attention is immediately on him. “He was so beautiful, so full of life, so full of love. How could they break him like that?”

“Lobotomy is always unpredictable – other people regain full functionality after the first shock blows over, others, well—,” Ale cuts himself off, at a loss of words.

“But there was nothing wrong with him!” Memo snaps, fury at the incompetent doctors and Riccardo’s parents leaking over. He’s done blaming himself: he didn’t do that, he didn’t take away everything that made Riccardo so special, he didn’t cut into his brain and turn him into this empty shell Memo hardly even recognizes. “He never hurt anyone, did he? All he did wrong was love me. That’s all. And they took him away from me, because they were scared of him being a bit different.”

“He still knew you,” Giampaolo says once Memo’s outburst is over, his voice steady and controlled, like he’s done being mad at the world for taking Riccardo away. He’s had three years to grieve his friend, Memo is only now coming to terms with the fact he will never again see _his_ Riccardo. “He’s never shown that much reaction for anyone else – you saw how he ignored me – so it must be a good sign. There’s still some part of our Riccardo in there.”

“He didn’t recognize me,” Memo argues in a low voice, looking down at his hands. Ale has pushed a mug of tea into his hold, but Memo cannot recall when that happened. “It was— more of an instinct, I guess? The psychic bond pulling him towards me without him realizing why it was happening. That’s how it was when we first met, in the dreamscape. We were always drawn to each other’s presence.”

“But if the bond is still there, that must mean he’s still there, right?” Giampaolo is trying so hard to stay positive where Memo is not.

“I don’t know,” Memo whispers and takes sip from the mug. The hot tea is burning his mouth but he’s too numb to even flinch. “Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t feel the connection at all.”

That’s what hurts the most: he found what he was looking for; he found Riccardo, as lost and broken as he is; but the bond is still gone, no signs of it re-awakening even though they are in the same building. Memo still feels as alone as he did that horrible morning two years ago, when Riccardo came to say his goodbyes before walking out of his life for good.

“Can we go home now?” Memo asks Giampaolo softly, setting the still half-full mug on the counter. “I need some time to process this. Maybe we can come back later, when I’ve collected myself. Give him another chance.”

Giampaolo looks like he wants to argue – his interest is obviously in making Riccardo better rather than to nurture Memo’s fragile mental state – but in the end he only nods, probably too used to people giving up on his best friend by now to question it.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo hides in his room when they get back to Caravaggio, not even joining the landlady for dinner like he usually does.

His mind keeps going back to Riccardo – _his Riccardo_ , the one from the dreams, but also the broken shell in the asylum that used to be his Riccardo. He silently wonders if it’s right to leave this Riccardo behind, even if Memo cannot feel the bond like he used to. For this Riccardo, the bond is obviously still there, and Memo knows first hand what taking that bond away can do even to a stable person, not to mention someone in Riccardo’s state.

This Riccardo used to be someone Memo could love with all his heart. That he is not that person anymore, is not Riccardo’s fault – it’s all the others, making the decisions for him. If Memo doesn’t grant him that connection that he so desperately craves, then does that mean Riccardo will truly be lost forever?

Memo closes his eyes and sleep claims him only long after midnight, his brain muddled with questions and Riccardo, Riccardo, Riccardo…

“I told you not to come looking for me.”

Memo knows it is no ordinary dream even before he opens his eyes. The bond is tugging at his chest immediately, urgent and alive and _there_. He is in the void, he realizes when he blinks his eyes open, and Riccardo is standing across from him, his arms crossed against his chest and dissatisfied pout on his face.

“Riccardo—!” Memo has so much to say, but all he can do right then is to rush and close the distance, until he has Riccardo safely in his arms. This is his Riccardo, he would know him anywhere, even after a million years. “Never, ever do that to me again! I thought you were gone, for real this time!”

“That’s what you were supposed to think.” Riccardo is leaning into Memo’s embrace despite his sullen tone. “I didn’t want you to come for me. I didn’t want you to see me like—” He sniffles against Memo’s shoulder. “Like that. It’d have been better if you just thought me dead.”

“Don’t say that, Riccardo.” Memo lifts his hands to caress the back of Riccardo’s neck, speaking right into his ear. “I spent one day thinking you were dead. It was the worst day of my life.”

“Worse than seeing me in that room?”

Memo takes a moment to consider the question. “Much worse. As long as you’re alive, at least there’s hope.”

He has so many questions: where has Riccardo been all this time; how come he’s here but not there; why didn’t he tell Memo what was happening to him before it was too late? So many questions, but Memo cannot bring himself to ask any of them now, not when he finally has Riccardo back in his arms.

There will be a time for questions, but that time is not tonight.

 

 

§§§

 

 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Ale asks as he unlocks the door.

Memo only nods, his eyes fixed on Riccardo, who is sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, legs pulled against his chest and hands tugging on the ends of his overgrown hair. The position is familiar, Memo recognizes the barriers Riccardo always tried to put on when he was feeling scared or overwhelmed.

“He’s been like this since your last visit. He’s not drawing, he’s barely even eating unless we force it down his throat.” There is worry all over Ale’s face. Memo guesses it comes as a part of the job: you can’t help but grow attached, even if the person you’re taking care of shows no signs of gratitude.

“It must be the bond acting up,” Memo muses out loud. He is yet to figure out where his Riccardo ends and this new Riccardo begins – the dream Riccardo has not been too forthcoming about the connection between his metaphysical self and the physical one – but he recognizes the reaction: it’s the same one Memo experienced when Riccardo broke the bond and he thought he would be lost forever.

 “Can you get him some lunch? I’ll see if I can get him to eat something.”

It is more so that Memo can have a moment alone with Riccardo. He has no idea what he is supposed to say or do, but ever since he found out his Riccardo is still in there, he has also known there is no way he can abandon this version of him. They are the one and the same, after all; one can’t exist without the other.

He walks into the room as Ale leaves to fetch some food. Riccardo gives no indication that he has even noticed Memo’s presence, still staring at his knees.

“Hi,” Memo greets softly as he walks over. There is no reaction. “I’m sorry I left like that last time. It was a shock, seeing you like this.” Riccardo does not flinch away when Memo crouches down on the floor in front of him. Memo has no idea if he can even understand his words, but he carries on, determined to do this right this time.

“I’m afraid I can’t feel you the same way you feel me, not in this realm at least.” Memo reaches out and takes a hold of Riccardo’s hands, pulls them away from his hair. The old scars are still there, Memo has traced those lines with his fingertips too many times to count. “The operation must’ve disrupted the part of your brain where the bond was originally born. But we can try to bring that back, if you let me take care of you. We can try and nurture that connection – maybe it’ll be even enough to fix the damage. How’d that sound?”

Riccardo is looking down at their joined hands. He’s not squeezing back, his hands completely lax inside Memo’s hold. At least he is not pulling away.

“It’s going to take time, I know,” Memo continues, stroking Riccardo’s knuckles with his thumbs. “But I’m going to ask Ale if I can come back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after… We’re going to get to know each other, and we’ll see where it goes from there.” He lifts one of Riccardo’s hands to his lips, kisses the back of his hand. “I’m sorry I made you wait, Riccardo.”

 

 

§§§

 

 

“You’re wasting your time,” Riccardo’s voice his harsh, and he keeps circling the white room, keeping as much distance from Memo as possible. It’s ironic, that their dreams would bring them here, where Riccardo’s body is resting, when the dream Riccardo claims he hasn’t been connected to that body since the operation.

“Would you rather I gave up on you?” Memo asks sharply. Riccardo has been avoiding him again, ever since that first night he showed himself after all that time.

“That—,” Riccardo glares at the bed, where his body is sleeping peacefully, almost completely buried in white blankets, “is not _me_. It hasn’t been me for over 3 years now, and nothing you do can change that.”

“You don’t know that!” Memo argues – why can’t Riccardo see that Memo is doing this for him, because the boy in the hospital bed is as much Riccardo as this dreamed image of him? Even if it doesn’t help, even if the connection is broken forever, Memo still owes it to Riccardo to look after him, body _and_ soul. “I finally found you, Riccardo. And I can’t leave any part of you behind, just because it might be somehow _easier_.”

“I told you that’s not me!” Riccardo snaps back, his voice raised and eyes wide with conviction. “You can leave _him_ behind; my parents are paying good money to keep him alive and out of sight. You don’t need to waste your life looking after a crippled retard.” His voice breaks at the last words, and to Memo’s horror, there are tears in his eyes.

He understands why Riccardo didn’t want him to come. He also understands why Riccardo doesn’t want him to stay. It’s all the more reason for him to stand his ground.

“What if it was me?” Memo asks softly, not trying to approach Riccardo even though the only thing he wants to do is wipe away his tears and assure him everything is going to be fine. “If it was my body, locked away in this room, yearning for a connection only you could give – would you be able to walk away?”

“That’s different,” Riccardo sniffles and turns his back to Memo. The firm set of his shoulders is telling Memo he is working hard to keep himself from breaking down completely.

“How so?” Memo takes a step closer, and Riccardo is not running from him anymore.

“Because I don’t mind ruining my own life for you.” Riccardo leans into Memo’s embrace when Memo finally reaches him and wraps his arms tentatively around his waist from behind. “As long as you don’t ruin yours.”

“How could taking care of someone I love ever ruin my life?” Memo presses a gentle kiss against Riccardo’s cheek, right next to his ear. “I travelled all the way to Europe for you. Because you _are_ my life. Please don’t take that away from me.”

“I could come with you,” Riccardo suggests, and he turns his head just enough to meet Memo’s eyes over his shoulder. “I’m not tied to this place. You could have me anywhere you wanted, all you need to do is close your eyes and I’ll be right here.”

It is Riccardo who closes the distance between their faces, a gentle brush of lips against Memo’s reminiscent of the first time they did this. Memo’s breath hitches at the contact, because he has missed this so much. It’s the spark he has only ever experienced when Riccardo touches him.

He allows Riccardo to turn around in his arms, scarred arms wound around Memo’s neck and fingers buried in his curly hair. Riccardo kisses him again with clear intent, lips firm against Memo’s and his tongue pressing between his lips until he can meet Memo’s with it. It feels like no time has passed since the previous time they did this, but at the same time, it feels like their first time.

There’s a soft needy sound that’s swallowed into the kiss, and Memo can’t even tell which one of them caused it. He can taste Riccardo’s tears on his lips, and he still wants to wipe them away, but he can’t bring himself to break the kiss long enough to do it. All his senses are filled with Riccardo, and his whole body is screaming for more – a desire as old as time, a yearning only Riccardo can sate in him.

He has Riccardo up against the wall, the drawings of Memo’s own face crumbling under the pressure, their lips never parting for air. Riccardo’s legs are wrapped around his waist, his whole weight suspended between the wall and Memo’s body, the pink hospital scrubs the only thing stopping Memo from feeling all of him at once.

“I love you,” Riccardo gasps out when Memo bucks his hips against him, looking for some release for the pressure building up in the pit of his stomach. Riccardo moans out loud when their crotches are pressed together, the friction far too real for something happening in a dream.

Memo searches Riccardo’s eyes, basks in the honest affection he can find there. “I love you, too. Always have. Always will.”

Riccardo catches Memo’s lips in another scorching kiss, and this one does not break before they have reached their climaxes, one after another, their moans muffled into each other’s mouths, in the silence of the asylum room that’s really the last place either of them wants to be in.

The last thing Memo can remember before he slips out of the dream are Riccardo’s fingers tracing a line on his face – the exact same line the real-world Riccardo traced with his paint-stained fingers not too long ago.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo is getting ready to depart to Milan for the day – he has been borrowing his landlady’s car, in exchange of picking up her everyday groceries from the market place on his way back – when there’s the incessant knocking on his door he could recognize anywhere.

“He tried to kill himself,” Giampaolo blurts out without any preamble, his eyes wide with worry and bewilderment. “Walked right into the river when Ale wasn’t looking. They got the word to his parents, they’re on their way. But I thought you deserved to know.”

Memo is out of the door and in the car without another word, Giampaolo following him and taking the passenger side without asking for permission. Memo cannot remember ever driving as fast as he does on the way to the asylum.

 

 

§§§

 

 

The hospital room is different from Riccardo’s usual one, no drawings on the walls, nothing to distinguish the person lying among the crisp white sheets. There is a window on the wall, giving to the nurse’s station, making it possible to monitor Riccardo’s every movement without actually staying in the room with him.

“I can’t let you in,” Ale tells Memo when they arrive. “You’re not on the list, and his parents are here. I know how much he means to you – I’ve seen how much progress you’ve made with him over these past couple of weeks – but I can’t keep bending the rules if it leads to something like this.”

“Obviously it’s not _Memo’s_ fault,” Giampaolo snaps before Memo has a chance to argue. “Look at the shitty life he’s living here – I wouldn’t want to keep doing it either!”

“Well, he never tried anything like that before _he_ came around,” Ale retorts immediately, staring Giampaolo down with expression that’d make a lesser man tremble in fear. “He’s changed, at it’s all because of _him_.”

“Isn’t that what we wanted?!” Giampaolo yells back, grabbing a hold of Ale’s scrubs. “To get even a glimpse of the old Riccardo back? To see him laugh and cry and just _feel_ like he used to, instead of that obedient little shadow you quacks turned him into?”

Memo cannot hear what Ale answers, because he has realized the door is unlocked, so he ignores the argument and walks right in, because he cannot take the sight of Riccardo, strapped down to the hospital bed, alone and scared in a room he doesn’t recognize.

“Hey,” he greets softly, and Riccardo turns to look at him immediately. Riccardo has been responding more and more readily to Memo’s presence, in a way Memo has never seen him react to anyone else. At least that has not changed.

He walks over to the bed and starts working on the straps around Riccardo’s wrists, keeping him from moving and trying something reckless. “Don’t scare me like that, okay? What would I do without you, Riccardo?”

Riccardo is looking at him with wide, scared eyes when Memo walks around the bed, like afraid he is going to leave him. Memo only smiles at him reassuringly and moves to open the other strap too, to release Riccardo from his chains. Riccardo has always hated the feeling of being trapped, ever since the bomb shelter, and Memo can tell strapping him down is the last thing he needs right now.

When the straps are gone, Riccardo sits up slowly, eyes still locked with Memo’s. He looks like he’s about to cry. Memo has not seen tears in his eyes since he found him, always thought that was one of the reactions the lobotomy stole from him.

“Why would you do something like that?” Memo asks softly. There’s a scuffle in the door, Giampaolo obviously trying to stop Ale from barging in and dragging Memo away. Memo pays them no mind, determined to make the best of every single second he can get with Riccardo. “Is it because of this place; are you not happy here?” Memo swallows a bile in his throat before he continues, “Or is it because of me?”

Riccardo lifts a hand, trailing two fingers down Memo’s cheek in a feather light touch. Memo recognizes the gesture immediately. The bond tugs at his heartstrings at the same time, the first time he has felt it with this Riccardo.

“I won’t abandon you, I promise,” he assures Riccardo just as there is an angry shout from the door:

“Get that man away from my son!”

Riccardo grabs a desperate hold of Memo’s hand with both of his when a doctor and two nurses come drag Memo away from the bed and out of the room. Memo holds on as long as he can, his eyes never leaving Riccardo’s. He can see the tears falling when the contact is lost, and the sight breaks his heart.

“I’m coming back for you, Riccardo,” he promises again, and then someone hits him over the head and there is nothing but darkness.

 

 

§§§

 

 

“You told me you couldn’t control your body,” Memo says, voice accusing, eyes locked with Riccardo’s in the void where they are floating together. “But that was you out there, wasn’t it? It’s always been you.”

“Yes,” Riccardo whispers, his voice broken and desperate, “and no. You have no idea what it’s like, to see the world through _his_ eyes.”

“ _Your_ eyes, you mean.”

“It’s painful! It’s like, one moment I’m myself – _free_ – in here, and the next I’m stuck in this invisible prison inside my own head – a body that doesn’t react the way I want it to, doesn’t do what I tell it to. Even _you’re_ looking at me like I’m a stranger, and all I ever want to do is scream for help until someone can _see_ me, but I have no voice out there so I can’t even do that.”

“You have a voice in here, though,” Memo says. There’s a piece stuck in his throat, making it hard to speak. “You could’ve told me while we were here. You could’ve screamed for help all you wanted, and I would’ve heard you.”

“I told you,” Riccardo counters, “I didn’t want you to throw away your life for me. That’s what it’s going to be if you stick around – it will never get better, not to the point you want it to, because my brain is broken. It’s physical damage and there’s no magic solution that’s going to fix it, no matter how close a bond we might share.”

Memo glides over to Riccardo, their distance closed in a matter of seconds in this dreamscape. Riccardo allows Memo to kiss him, one hand caressing Riccardo’s cheek while the other is pressed against the back of his neck. Riccardo’s lips taste salty, like he has been crying too many tears to count, until the taste is stuck to his skin forever.

“Please stop thinking about what I’m supposed to want,” Memo whispers against Riccardo’s lips between the kisses. “Because it’s all quite simple: I want you. And that includes you in every form, out there and in here. If it means taking care of you for the rest of my life, then so be it. _I’m not leaving you_ , and I won’t allow you to leave me either, so don’t you dare to pull another stunt like that.”

Riccardo is returning every kiss with his owns, growing in desperation and urgency.

“I don’t want you to regret it.” Whispered words against his lips, before Riccardo’s tongue caresses Memo’s lips, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Memo obliges him immediately, answering in actions more than in words.

 

 

§§§

 

 

Memo wakes up in an unfamiliar hospital bed with a familiar hand holding his.

He turns his head slowly, the pain of a killer headache immediately halting his movement, but he has moved just enough to find Riccardo leaning on the bed, both hands clutched around Memo’s, pale blue eyes meeting his as soon as Riccardo realizes he’s awake.

Riccardo smiles at him, a gentle and loving smile Memo cannot remember seeing on the real-world Riccardo before. But now he knows it’s _his_ Riccardo looking at him through those eyes, and he can feel the bond, bright as a day.

“He kept crying for you until we allowed him to come here,” Ale’s voice from the corner of the room, obviously stationed there to keep an eye on the both of them. “His parents aren’t happy about it, but the doctors told them it’s the most incentive he’s shown towards anything or anyone since the operation, so it’d be foolish not to allow it.”

Memo raises his hand and caresses Riccardo’s hair carefully. It’s matted and dirty, probably unwashed since his impromptu dip in the river earlier. Riccardo leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment in obvious pleasure.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers to Riccardo, a solemn promise just between the two of them, his voice so low he hopes it only reaches Riccardo’s ears. Ale shows no signs of hearing him, at least.

Riccardo smiles at him, though, and leans his cheek against Memo’s hand between his.

The bond is fluttering inside Memo’s chest, and he’s sure Riccardo can feel it too.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: Feedback gives me life and keeps me writing!


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